


I Saw A Sign In The Sky

by Dorkangel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf Culture & Customs, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Abuse, Short One Shot, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29643432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkangel/pseuds/Dorkangel
Summary: “I feel like an animal,” murmured Tuor, observing his reflection in the fine bronze mirror. In being told to bring clothes for a man the servants had underestimated his size, and his tunics fell short of his wrists, revealing manacle scars no matter how he tugged them down. “Like some beast mistaken for a person and dressed up as one.”A quiet conversation between Voronwë and Tuor shortly after their arrival in Gondolin.
Relationships: Tuor & Voronwë (Tolkien), Tuor/Voronwë (Tolkien)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	I Saw A Sign In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sufjan Stevens, because it's weirdly appropriate: _I saw a sign in the sky: seven swans, seven swans, seven swans / I heard a voice in my mind: I am lord, I am lord, I am lord_

_Tuor and Voronwë have arrived in Gondolin. Tuor, possessed by the vala Ulmo, has given his message; the Gondolidhrim were awed, etc. Tuor was then given the lordship of the new House of the Wing, Voronwë was pardoned and reunited briefly with his parents, and Tuor, exhausted, collapsed. King Turgon hurriedly arranged for them to be given rooms in which to recuperate for the night. They ate, bathed, slept, and now pause, waiting to be summoned again to tell their full story, to look at themselves._

“I feel like an animal,” murmured Tuor, observing his reflection in the fine bronze mirror. In being told to bring clothes for a man the servants had underestimated his size, and his tunics fell short of his wrists, revealing manacle scars no matter how he tugged them down. “Like some beast mistaken for a person and dressed up as one.”

He drew so close that his nose almost touched the polished surface, running a broad hand over his yet-unshaven face.

“You are no beast,” Voronwë said, as gently as he could. In truth the once-familiar weight of noble Noldorin costume felt unnatural on his shoulders too, though he thought the vivid sea-green suited Tuor very well. “You are a man, and a great and admirable one at that.”

A hero, probably, in short order - but he knew that saying so would only embarrass Tuor.

“Admirable,” huffed Tuor, disbelieving. Voronwë laid a grounding hand on his shoulder, and he reached up to grasp it.

“I don’t know how to be among these elves,” he whispered, real terror showing briefly on his face. It was a fear of something deep, existential, and not one that Voronwë had seen before: they had a purpose, at least, before this, and now that the message had been delivered and the mission faithfully fulfilled, they would have to simply live. “I don’t know how to be among people at all. I had thought I would remain alone for all my days. The Nandor were all dead or gone, and Lorgan’s folk were… they weren’t…”

He bowed his head, and Voronwë felt a great tide of emotion rising in his chest.

“I wish I were of the Green Elves of your childhood,” Voronwë whispered. “So that you would not feel so alone.”

In the mirror he saw Tuor smile slightly, though he did not raise his head. He laced their fingers together fondly.

“I would not have you be other than you are.”

“Nor I you.”

Voronwë slipped down and sat behind Tuor on the floor, resting his chin on the man’s strong shoulders.

“You are not a beast,” he said again, more firmly, knowing that the back before him was littered with scars given by men who had treated Tuor as such. “And the Gondolidhrim will not see you that way. We have met other mortals, you know.”

Tuor glanced back, a doubting tilt to his brow and a definite look of amusement on his face.

“Two.” he pointed out.

“Two was enough.”

Tuor examined his reflection again, looking this time for something else. He was not the only descendent of Hador to have been brought to Gondolin and dressed in their raiment, after all.

“Do I look like my father?” he asked Voronwë, false lightness in his voice. He had always wondered, and Annael wouldn’t have been able to answer; he had never met Huor.

Voronwë inclined his head in consideration.

“A little. More like your uncle, though mainly just because he was a giant, too.”

“Really?”

“You didn’t know?”

Tuor didn’t reply. How would he have known? The Easterlings had spoken no kind, nor even neutral words, about the sons of Galdor.

“Húrin sprouted like a weed over his first few years here,” Voronwë said, after a moment. “The tailors were afraid he would never stop growing - he had a good laugh about that when he found out. Then they worried that Huor would grow like that too.”

Tuor could imagine it. His foster-father had teased him some about his height, but Tuor had been more concerned with the troublesome developments of human puberty unfamiliar to elves: teaching himself to shave so that he could be as smooth-cheeked as all those around him, surreptitiously washing three times a day to avoid politely-wrinkled noses.

“But he didn’t?”

“Not as much. I think you have a few inches on Húrin, anyway. You must be almost as tall as King Turgon.”

Voronwë wondered briefly how tall Tuor might have been if he hadn’t been starved in his thraldom and his solitude, then guiltily quashed the thought. It could have no good answer.

“The king has his elven grace, though,” objected Tuor, with something of the same good humour that had sustained them through the long, hard journey from Nevrast to Gondolin, successfully distracted. “I refuse to imagine him as ungainly and gangly a creature as myself.”

Voronwë knew that Lord Glorfindel had in fact many stories of young Turgon, barely fifty and thinking himself very grown indeed, tripping over his long legs and utterly failing to demonstrate any grace as he stammered through flirtations with Elenwë. But before he had a chance to suggest that Tuor might ask to hear them, a knock came at the door, shattering their private moment.

They shared a look of reluctance, and then, dutiful as ever, Voronwë climbed to his feet and opened the door. There stood a page, a girl dressed in the colours of the royal household, with a look of barely restrained and bright-eyed curiosity.

“You are summoned to a council by the king and the lords of the twelve houses,” she announced, bowing neatly.

Voronwë bowed back, struggling mentally through all the etiquette he had ever learned for the traditional reply.

“And this we will accept,” he tried eventually. Close enough, apparently: she nodded, and he sunk a little in relief.

“Thank you.” added Tuor, startling her. His Sindarin was perfect, of course, but Voronwë had found that there was some indeterminable quality to his voice that  _ felt  _ mortal - perhaps that it did not resonate with ósanwë in the mind? Or perhaps Voronwë had just gotten accustomed to his voice as that of the mortal he knew.

Tuor straightened his clothes as he awkwardly stood, clearly all too aware of the other elf in the doorway, who turned her eyes away politely.

“Presentable?”

“More or less,” shrugged Voronwë, compelled again by the nerves in his friend’s voice to tease. “An improvement, certainly.”

Though Tuor’s robes now were ill-fitting, he could hardly have looked worse than yesterday. He and Voronwë had both been rake-thin, dirty and worn from the road, of course, but Tuor had been a special sight indeed: filthy furs and rags under resplendent winged armour, greasy hair and a ragged beard framing glowing eyes and a mouth that spoke with the voice of a Vala. A wild man and a divine emissary all at once. 

“Right,” said Tuor, faintly grey. He looked suddenly very young - which in truth he was, and not only by the standards of elves. “Right.”

“You are a fine man, Tuor,” Voronwë repeated, softly. “That is what they will see.”

The page took her cue to begin to lead them toward the council chamber, and Tuor steeled himself to follow her.  _ That is what I will show them _ , he resolved.


End file.
